Rummaging for Answers
by Crystallic Rain
Summary: Sherlock is certain that there is a mistake within his textbook when he attempts to brew Amortentia and he smells something he didn't before. John, however, has a different idea of what the real problem might be. But, if he's honest, is it really a 'problem' at all? (Fluffy Potterlock!AU)


**Rummaging for Answers**

 _We wear our scarves just like a noose, but not 'cause we want eternal sleep;_  
 _And though our parts are slightly used, new ones are slave labor you can keep._  
 _We're living in a den of thieves, rummaging for answers in the pages._  
 _We're living in a den of thieves and it's contagious._

 _-_ "Us" by Regina Spektor

* * *

 **Notes:** This is fluff. That's really all there is to it. My bestie, the lovely Alicia needed some fluff and so I wrote her some fluff to help cheer her up. I know that this doesn't actually fix anything that's going on, but here's something to make you smile for a little bit while you think about these two lovely idiots.

Also, to those of you following my other stories (specifically my Frozenlock), I promise I have not abandoned it! I am nearly finished. But so much real life has been happening. I am now teaching full time, and it has been one hell of an adjustment, but I am working on it! Thanks!

Pretty sure Amortentia is such a trope by now but I don't care because it's cute.

* * *

Sherlock didn't glance up from his book, even when the other body joined him at the library table. He didn't need to. There was only one person who would come looking for him, really, and only one person who would sit down with him out of choice.

"Shouldn't you be celebrating your victory?" he asked the newcomer, eyes still fixed on the words in front of him. He was glancing at the list of potion ingredients, but it was exactly the same as the version he had in his class textbook. Every single one, down to the exact measurements. He frowned. Perhaps if there was some variation in the process, that could explain why it hadn't turned out properly…

"How do you know we won?"

Sherlock looked up at John Watson, Seventh Year Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, still clad in his scarlet and gold robes. He was looking at the boy with the expression the Ravenclaw had become accustomed to: one part impressed, one part amused, and just a dash of something to _challenge_ whatever Sherlock just said (if only because he knew Sherlock liked the attention and the opportunity to show off his intelligence).

"Obvious," Sherlock told the Gryffindor, waving it off. John rolled his eyes at this.

"Well, you are right," he allowed. He rummaged in his pocket for a moment before putting his closed fist on the table. "I even brought you the winning Snitch." He opened his hand to reveal the tiny golden sphere resting in his palm. "It was a spectacular catch, if I do say so myself. And Hooch said I can keep it, being my last game and all."

"Did you know that they have flesh memories?" Sherlock asked him suddenly, though he didn't intend it to actually be a question. He picked up the tiny object, looking at it closely. "They recognize the skin of the first person to touch them. It's mostly so that if teams were to argue about who actually caught it, they would have proof. That's why they always use a new Snitch for every game. Even the makers have to wear gloves."

He looked back to John who was grinning broadly at him. "Do you just know _everything_?" he asked a little teasingly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not everything," he admitted, dropping the Snitch back into the Seeker's hand, "but a good percentage."

John chuckled. He admired the Snitch for a brief moment longer before returning it to his pocket. Then, he leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I came looking for you, though," he told Sherlock, as though he suddenly remembered the initial question. "All of Gryffindor is throwing a party to celebrate, and you weren't there."

"And why would I be in the Gryffindor common room?"

"As if that would stop you!" John laughed. "It never has before. You came when we won the Cup last year. And this year, half of your house showed up to help us celebrate our win over Hufflepuff."

"If half of Ravenclaw is in there, then it would be far less impressive for me to manage it this time," Sherlock told him challengingly, and John shook his head in amusement. "Besides, it isn't _my_ victory. I don't need to be there."

"Yeah, but it's my last year, all the more reason that you should be celebrating with me."

"All the more reason _you_ should be there," Sherlock insisted. He needed to get back to the task on hand. He looked back down at his book, examining the instructions more closely, rereading each line in an effort to find even the smallest difference between the two books. "They'll be missing their captain."

"They'll manage."

"And what about—what is her name? Was it the one with the nose or the one with the spots?"

John rolled his eyes. "We've been over for months and you _know_ that, Sherlock," he said, pointing an accusing finger at him. "Now you're just being difficult!" The Ravenclaw boy didn't show any sign of relenting, though, so John gave in, dropping his hands to the table, shoulders drooping a bit. "It's not the same without you, you know?"

Sherlock didn't tilt his head, only moving his eyes to look at John for just a moment. He supposed it had something to do with sentiment. He supposed he should say "yes, I know" or "thank you" or something, but he didn't do these situations. So instead he just returned to his book and read on.

"What are you reading anyway?" John asked suddenly. "We have a few weeks before exams, you can't be studying _that_ hard. You still have a year before your NEWTs anyway!" He swiftly swiped the book from Sherlock, turning it around so he could look at it. He laughed, eyebrows raised. " _Amortentia_? Sherlock Holmes is looking at making _love potions_?"

Sherlock grunted, rolling his eyes at the older boy. "Hardly," he scoffed. "At least, not for any _use_. That's a level of stupidity I have _no_ desire to even _entertain_." He grabbed the book back from John. "Surely you remember Slughorn subjecting Sixth Years to his little 'smell test' in the beginning of the year."

John nodded. He remembered when he had had to do it, and Slughorn was a man of tradition. "Right," he said slowly. "But isn't that in your textbook anyway?"

"Yes," Sherlock snapped, as though the reason he was looking up the recipe was obvious. "I tried recreating it—just something as a challenge to prepare for the practical part of exams—"

"Even though that's beyond the level of average Sixth Years and you'd never be asked to make it," John said.

Sherlock ignored him pointedly, glaring at him. " _However,"_ he went on, "there is clearly a mistake within our text. The potion isn't right."

John frowned. "And you didn't make a mistake somewhere?" Sherlock quirked a brow at him. "Of course not," he sighed, because Sherlock making a mistake was obviously impossible. "Well," he said, attempting another tactic, "what makes you think you did something wrong anyway?"

By way of answer, Sherlock produced a small vial from inside his robe, handing it over to the older boy. John did look impressed. He wasn't as good at potions himself, much better with his charms and enchantments. He was certain that if he had attempted it, he wouldn't have even come close to something recognizable in the way that Sherlock did.

"Well," he offered lamely, "it _is_ the right color, if I remember correctly."

Sherlock glared at him like he was a complete idiot, something that the older boy had grown accustomed to. "Yes," Sherlock said shortly. "It has the pearly sheen, and steam rose from it in spirals—both distinctive characteristics of it. That's all fine."

John frowned, certain that he was missing something—which, with Sherlock, was often the case. "Then what's the problem?" he asked, looking from the bottle to the other boy.

"The _problem_ ," Sherlock explained in a patronizing tone, words so painfully slow as though he was explaining something as clear as grass being green or the sky being blue, "is the _smell_."

John furrowed his brow. With an eye roll and a wave of the hand from Sherlock, as though giving him permission to test it himself, the Gryffindor boy uncorked the small bottle. He tentatively inhaled through his nose.

The aroma that met his nostrils was a pleasant one, so intoxicating and wonderful, and he remembered how fascinated he had been with it last year as well. Though, he reasoned, things had changed since then. So he closed his eyes, letting his mind place each different scent: the way that the Quidditch Pitch smelled when he first stepped onto it for an early practice, all fresh dewy grass and crisp air before the sun warmed it; the perfect cup of hot Irish Breakfast tea with a splash of milk; and finally there was _that scent—that_ distinctive combination—a bit of industrial-strength cauldron cleaner, clean and pressed linens, chocolate biscuits, and a tiny tang of something a bit smoky. A year and a half ago, it hadn't quite been the same. But, he had to admit, it wasn't all that unexpected to him.

His cheeks felt warm as he opened his eyes again, looking at Sherlock, who was watching him expectantly. He shrugged one shoulder. "Seems right to me," he said, and he even allowed himself to be a little impressed that his voice sounded so calm despite the way his heart fluttered, thinking about that last scent.

"No!" Sherlock growled, snatching the vial back. "It's not."

"Well, then, what do you smell?" John asked, frowning again. There had to be something he was missing. "Maybe if you—I dunno, maybe if you try and properly explain what it is exactly, I can help somehow?"

Sherlock looked at him dubiously, but reluctantly complied. He waved the potion under his nose briefly, inhaling. "Dittany," he said in a quick, clipped tone. "Clover honey. Cauldron cleaner." John's lips twitched into a bit of a smile at this (because _of course_ he smelled it too). "And—" He narrowed his eyes at the vial then, and John's smile fell back into a frown.

"And?" John prompted, leaning in on his elbows once more.

"It's—I don't know," he said frustratedly, stoppering the potion and dropping it onto his book. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. "I can't place it. But it was _certainly_ not present before." He huffed out a breath. "There has to be something _wrong_."

Something was nagging at John, and he worried his lip between his teeth as he considered how to suggest the idea to Sherlock. He wasn't a genius, wasn't brilliant at potions, but he had an idea. Perhaps they were in similar situations—perhaps just as a bit of John's had changed, so had Sherlock's. It didn't mean that something was _wrong_.

"Maybe not?" he said tentatively.

The Ravenclaw scoffed. "There _must_ be," he argued. "Those were the three scents that I experienced with Slughorn's proper brew, the scents of things that I— _appreciate_ or _value_." He waved his hands at the last words, as though unsure of the proper terms to use. "Maybe…" John suggested slowly, clasping his hands together. "Maybe your—er— _interests_ have changed?"

Again Sherlock guffawed at the idea. "I don't see how that would correlate with anything, though!" he told the boy, throwing his hands up in frustration, picking up the bottle and looking at it as though it offended him—which, John reasoned, was accurate to a point. "It's not even an odor that really makes _sense_. It's something—something like wool and sandalwood and black tea—it's—it smells like—like—" He froze, snapping his jaw shut and blinking a few times. He swallowed. " _Oh_."

John felt his cheeks heat up, and his heart hammered. He was right, then—he assumed that he was, of course, and that Sherlock had found someone who struck his fancy. He hadn't _quite_ anticipated this turn though. But that wasn't bad. In fact, that was rather _good._ If he understood everything correctly—which he hoped he did, because he was clever even though Sherlock made even some of the brightest witches and wizards seem dim by comparison—then things were _definitely_ good.

"I should go."

And suddenly John realized that he had frozen for a second too long. He registered that the other boy was gathering up his things, snapping the library book shut and shoving it into his bag. He slid the vial back into his robe and clutched his bag to his shoulder. But as he turned to leave, John grabbed the sleeve of his robe, tugging him back into his chair. The Ravenclaw boy's eyes were fixed on the floor, glaring at it as though he was desperate to burn a hole through it with only his gaze.

He had to say something. John knew he had to say something. But all he could think was a mix of ' _yes, yes, thank Merlin he feels the same way'_ and ' _we are both complete and utter idiots'_.

"You didn't ask what I smelled," John said a little lamely after several long seconds, the trepidation and annoyance radiating off of the dark-haired boy.

"What."

John tried not to grin at the way Sherlock bit out the word and managed to make it sound like it wasn't a question at all. He took in a deep, steadying breath, trying to focus on other matters—the important matter of sharing his realization that these were mutual feelings.

"Grass," he said slowly. "Irish Breakfast tea."

"Obviously," Sherlock mumbled, and again John had to suppress a laugh.

"Then there's the bits of the person I fancy, as well," he said, and the warmth was returning to his cheeks, the blush creeping up his neck and to his face even as Sherlock tensed at these words. "There's the way his perfect, crisp shirts smell so clean. Then there's these chocolate biscuits, which are some of the only things he eats sometimes, I swear." He paused for a second, taking in another steadying breath. "I can smell the cigarettes he nicks from his brother during the summer, which he is a complete idiot for doing," he continued. He allowed himself a small smile at the next part. "And since he fancies himself a bit of a potions master, he can't ever seem to completely get the smell of the cauldron cleaner out of his robes, and that's there, too."

John watched the way Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "You said 'he' quite a bit for someone who doesn't fancy blokes," the Ravenclaw said evenly, looking up at the other boy.

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, maybe this bloke's a bit different," he said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at this. "Or a lot different," he allowed, grinning. In turn, Sherlock's lips twitched a bit into a smile. "Either way, I fancy him. And now I'm inclined to believe he fancies me, too," he went on. "And if he's okay with it, I think I'd like to kiss him right about now."

Sherlock's eyes widened at this, and he took a minute to process the information. For a moment, John wondered if he should regret the words. He was about to backtrack when Sherlock spoke. "I think that I could be amendable to the suggestion," he said at last.

He didn't give it a second thought. John leaned forward and closed the distance between them. He was suddenly aware that his hand was still fisting the sleeve of Sherlock's robe and he loosened the grip, though he still refused to let go. It was gentle, simple, and chaste, a bit hesitant and unsure. Still, to John, it felt just like he thought a kiss with Sherlock _should_ feel.

He pulled away, and watched as Sherlock blinked at him uncertainly. He smiled encouragingly in response. "Maybe the potion wasn't all that wrong then," John suggested, finally letting his hand fall away, back to the table. "I'm sorry you wasted your whole day trying to figure it out, though."

Sherlock got to his feet, and John quickly followed suit. The dark-haired boy straightened the books in his bag before hoisting it higher on his shoulder. "Not a complete waste," he admitted as the two began to walk slowly out of the library. "And I was hardly in here all day."

"Really?" John asked, a bit doubtful.

"I stepped out for a bit of fresh air," Sherlock told him vaguely with a shrug.

John narrowed his eyes at this, letting the words and Sherlock's meaning behind them sink in. "You git!" he said, laughing suddenly as it all snapped into place. "You watched the game! You didn't just _know_ that we won!"

"It was quite a ' _spectacular_ _catch_ '," Sherlock smirked.

"I thought you _hated_ Quidditch," John countered. "I believe the exact word you used was ' _abhored'_."

The taller boy rolled his eyes at this. "I may not always understand sentiment, but at least I knew not to miss your final game," he said a little softly.

He could feel the way that Sherlock fidgeted at the admission and decided to lighten the mood. "Or you got the fifty hints I dropped that you should go," John offered, nudging him teasingly.

"Or that," Sherlock allowed, relaxing again.

John chuckled and grasped Sherlock's hand in his. "You're a complete berk, you know," he said. "For a Ravenclaw, anyway." "And you're not completely intolerable for a Gryffindor," Sherlock shot back.

John stuck his tongue out at Sherlock before sighing. "I suppose we should be heading up to Gryffindor, then?" he asked, unenthusiastically.

"Your public does await your arrival, I'm sure," Sherlock said. He paused for only a second before ploughing on. " _Or_ we could go to the Three Broomsticks for a Butterbeer, grab some sweets from Honeydukes, and then head over to the Hog's Head—there's a man there that I might be able to convince to sell me some Lobalug venom for a potion I want to try tomorrow."

John broke into a grin, looking at his companion expectantly. "The passage behind Gregory the Smarmy?"

"Precisely what I had in mind," Sherlock responded with a nod.

And with that, John gave the other boy's hand a tug, and the two ran down the hall in the direction of the staircase leading to the fifth floor, their next adventure awaiting them behind the old statue.


End file.
